


Switching Roles

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d like to preface this for your non existent audience by saying that you do not have a single fucking clue what you are doing.</p><p>Usually, in a relationship, you are the pacified, the coddled, the cared-for. You admit that it is selfish, but it’s how the cards always fall, how things just end up operating; you don’t mind too much, you like being cared for. It makes you feel special, wanted.</p><p>But now you’re in the opposite role, and you have no fucking clue what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switching Roles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roundandtalented](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundandtalented/gifts).



> gift fic i wrote for rawrimamidget on tumblr about forever and a day ago
> 
> it's a drabble //shrugs

You’d like to preface this for your non existent audience by saying that you do not have a single fucking clue what you are doing.

Usually, in a relationship, you are the pacified, the coddled, the cared-for. You admit that it is selfish, but it’s how the cards always fall, how things just end up operating; you don’t mind too much, you like being cared for. It makes you feel special, wanted.

But now you’re in the opposite role, and you have no fucking clue what to do.

Your… whatever the quadrant-smearing fuck you are with Sollux is currently attached to you like a barnacle to the hull of a ship, and you don’t think there’s any chance of him letting go any time soon. You’re bruised and sore from going three rounds with a tetchy bull-constrictor lusus, but you don’t dare pull away, not when his pale fingers cling to your clothes so tightly that for a moment you are afraid that even his filed claws will put holes in your clothing; when his shoulders start to shake, you decide you don’t care.

“Hey,” you say, and he jerks at the sound of your voice, like you startled him; you quiet your tone and try again, softer this time, raising one hand to tangle in his thick mess of a mop of hair.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

He shakes his head and presses his ear to your chest and clings to you like you’ll disappear if he even thinks about letting go; he’s all sharp angles and sharper joints, with elbows like needles and knees like knives and hip bones that jut out like the cliffs over the sea near your hive, but you balance him easily enough, with your softness. When he plasters himself to you, his knees dig into the bruises over your gut, and his pointy face gets smashed against your chest like he can touch your heart of he pushes close enough. If he keeps jabbing you with his horns, then he’s gonna gore you and that statement might end up truer than you’d like.

“Sol? C’mon, bee, talk to me. I ain’t a mind reader, I can’t tell what you’re thinkin’.”

You feel embarrassingly off balance. You’ve dealt with Sollux in various states before- that had been impossible to avoid, what with your materailssitude? kisspritegience? moismesspritship? but never before have you seen him so… upset.

You’ve seen him sad, you’ve seen him angry. You’ve seen him happy and nervous and furious, loving and kind and wanting attention, but never have you seen him so upset you think he might begin to cry.

Oh god. Oh god don’t let him cry.

But of course, the story of your life; he begins to cry. Sollux fucking Captor begins to cry, soaking the fabric of your shirt, and you are frozen. What the fuck do you do when the one you love-hate-pity most of all is curled into you like he’s about to break into pieces? You let out a noise like terror and wrap your arms around him, but he just keeps sobbing near silent tears into your chest, hands digging into the plush of your sides as he grips you and holds you close desperately.

“Sol, baby,” you say, stepping back and taking him with you, leading him to the couch and sitting down with him, holding him in your lap, “Sol, what’s the matter? C’mon, you gotta talk to me. Please?”

You shush him, smoothing your hands over his cheeks, rocking from side to side and trying to soothe with horn rubs and head kisses and all the things he does to you when you’re feeling miserable, but it just doesn’t work. Nothing’s working, nothing’s calming him down, so you just stay quiet and hold his head to your heart, thumb rubbing over one pointed, doubled ear.

“Thought you were gone,” he finally spits out, voice laced with horror, fingers digging into you so hard you’re sure that he’s just adding to your collection of contusions, “Fuck, fuck ED I thought you-”

You have no clue how to respond to that; the phrase doesn’t make any sense, for as much as it obviously terrifies him. You’d told him you were leaving, left him a nice little note and everything, and for the love of god he’s still in your hive, it’s not like you’d been planning on taking off forever. There’s no way you could escape him even if you tried- he’s got a lock on you, a psionic tracker that you’d never be able to shake… and he’s got a grip on your heart that goes so deep, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to pry his claws from you.

“I told you I was leavin’,” you say, cautiously, keeping the  _god you massive fuckin’ doofus_  to yourself, for now, because the last thing you need is for him to start crying again, “What’s the deal, Sol? You wouldn’t be cryin’ your heart out because I took off, you’d hunt me the fuck down an’ decorate the floor’a your hive with a seadweller-skin rug.”

He squeezes you tight and gives you a little shake, and you feel the ghost of his teeth against the skin of your shoulder.

“Not like that,” he says, choked, “I heard- I heard-”

He shifts and bites you, hard, his tongue pressed to the beat of your pulse. Your hands reaches back, tangles in his hair to yank him off… but he’s shaking, shaking hard enough for you to feel it in your bones, and you think that if his teeth weren’t sunk into your flesh, then they’d be rattling in his skull.

“You heard what?” you prompt, nudging him softly, “C’mon. Use your words, Sol, your teeth in my neck ain’t tellin’ me jack shit except about how you apparently want me to punch you upside the head.”

He shudders, and your hand shifts from gripping his hair to pressing against the base of his skull, sliding down to cup the scruff of his neck. You rub your thumb over the knob of his spine and sigh, rolling your eyes as you feel drool drip over the curve of your shoulder.

“I heard your voice,” he rasps, reaching up, reaching for you, his hands curling over the line of your throat, pressing against your skin, your pulse drumming against his palms, “I heard your voice, and then it… stopped. I thought you were  _gone_.”

Oh.

“Sol,” you murmur, tone softening, allowing him to curl up against you and feel your life beat against his hands, “Sol, I’m fine. I… got into a nasty fight with a lusus but I’m fine.”

He shakes his head, stubborn, trembling.

“You’re not fine, you idiot,” he says, and god, he sounds so scared, and you feel so guilty, “You- I heard your  _voice_.”

He reaches up, grips your horns in his hands, drags you down and close and presses up against you like he’s not sure you’re real.

“I only hear the voices of the soon to be fucking dead— you aren’t fucking fine, you almost died, you almost died _I thought you died_ -”

You chitter at him in alarm as tears spill over once again, and your hands are cupping his cheeks before you even think about it. He’s crying again, he’s fucking crying and you’ve always been shit at dealing with tears but it’s not like you can toss some caegers at him and send him out to buy something pretty, Sollux isn’t like that.

You lean in and press your cheek to his, your fins brushing over his ears, and one of your hands twines around his own, bringing it to your chest. His fingers are cold, lukewarm against your skin, but you tuck his hand under your shirt anyways, splaying his fingers out over your heart. You desperately hope this works, because you’re shit out of ideas if you can’t get him to calm down.

“I’m fine,” you say, holding him still, holding him close, “I’m alive an’ breathin’. Just got a bit banged up, some bruises but nothin’ more.”

There had been a point in time where you thought you were going to die, but you’d gotten rid of the massive beast before it could do too much damage, and you’re tough. You can handle a bit of pressure.

“I mean, yeah I couldn’t breathe for a bit, but I’m pretty sure no ribs are broken or anythin’, an’ I’m  sort of pretty sure it wasn’t poisonous-”

“Oh my god just shut up,” he says, sounding pained; you oblige and keep your mouth shut while he shifts, straddling your lap, the two of you chest to chest with his hand crushed between you, his pointy chin digging into the bulk of your shoulder, his ear pressed to your throat. You settle your arms around his waist and he sighs; he relaxes against you, nothing but a warm, limp weight over your torso, some of his panic fading at the reassurance of your touch.  

You can feel the tension drain from his shoulders, his back, and you duck your head to press a kiss to his horns chest rumbling with a purr, soft and calming.

“You’re shit at this comforting thing,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your shirt, of which he now has a mouthful; you’re not sure why he likes biting things so much, but you suppose you don’t mind, if it keeps him calm- and if he stays away from your gills with those nasty ass chompers of his.

“You’re not panickin’ anymore, so I think I did okay.”

“I’m not panicking anymore because there’s no way a hallucination can be as annoying as the real thing,” he says, and his elbow digs into your side, just over your gills, and you know that he’ll be fine.

“…Don’t ever do that to me again,” he mumbles, tapping a finger in time with your heartbeat, even, steady, slow, “If you do, I swear to god the next time I hear your voice it’s gonna be because _I’m_ about to kill you.”

“You got it, Sol.”

You kiss his horn and he elbows you in the side, so you roll over and drape your larger frame on top of him, pinning him down to the couch. You know his protests are fake, because if he honestly had as much of a problem as he’s making out, you know he could just lift you and toss you right out the goddamn window with no expended effort on his part.

“Love you,” he says, after his flailing has petered out, laying quietly beneath you with a hand still pressed to your chest.

“Love you too,” you reply, wrapping yourself around him, tucking your head under his chin and squishing him down, putting pressure on him like you know he likes. It means you’re there, that you’re real, and you never pretend to understand your matemesirail but you do what makes him happy, even if it confuses you.

He settles underneath you, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut; you kiss the dark circles under his eyes and ignore his snort and mutter of  _you fucking sap why do I like you_.

Your hand grips his own, your fingers threaded together, and you hold his palms to your heart even after he’s fallen asleep.


End file.
